A Cruel Erotic Plague
by Angelas
Summary: Thorin is exclusively invited to a festivity in Mirkwood hosted by none other than the Elvenking himself. Though Thorin never imagined Thranduil's intentions would be so.. filthy, and so bold. Sequel to 'Dust of Diamonds in His Hair'.


**This was written in the span of several days of intense procrastination. This is probably my most serious work. I regret nothing.  
However, if you have not read the first part of this story, I would strongly recommend it. This would make a helluva a lot more sense if you did. xD I disclaim all.**

**oOo**

Three years Thorin had him wait.

Twelve seasons. Countless nights; lonely nights, so much torture. So much time.

The breeze of Spring, _insufferable_, stung coldly at his sheets. The warmth of Summer sun, too painful underneath his feet. Its sear upon another melted memories from his white and timeless skin. And even the favored brown hue that came from the fall of Autumn, not enough to sate his need.

So it was on the fifth moon of Winter in which the Elvenking could wait no more. Lest only a single year had passed since that sinful storm in Erebor, he paced his chambers tensely. His lips lied firmly pressed, brows frozen into place, though his pride was no match that night for this cruel, erotic plague.

Thranduil traced circles across his quarters in perpetual, fluid patterns, fine boots of the scarcest Elven make sliding against crystallized marble. His hands held themselves loosely behind his long back, his expression frozen over, chin leveled high as his blue, icy eyes lied partly covered.

"To which date, sire?"

Thranduil paused abruptly,_ softly_, releasing his hands from their clasp to place them atop the ridge of a large open window. The day was dark, sullen in its oaken musk; sunless. He saw his people gliding gracefully through the air like moonlit specters as they sang and whispered lovesick sonnets. His home was hued with blues and blacks, shadows at every corner laced in candlelight.

"Twelve days," said Thranduil. "Dusk, here. Twelve days."

His penman's hand paused against the vellum. "My king.. So soon? Erebor is.. vast, in distance. Perhaps a month, or maybe _two_, would be-"

At this, Thranduil turned, the ends of his silvern robe brushing gently against the frosty floor. His face was a smooth and ageless glacier, framed beautifully by flaxen strands. His gilded crown glinted elegance whilst his posture towered into gallant radiance.

He approached, heels resounding quietly into the room.

"Twelve," his wintry whisper lulled his courtier's hair into a small and dangerous sway, "**Days**_._"

And with that, the Elvenking of Mirkwood left his chambers promptly, leaving the other gelid in his place.

**oOo**

It was on exceptional occasions in which the remaining line of Durin sat and ate together.

And the occasion, even the more extraordinary, when the King and remaining Prince of Erebor were accompanied by fellow comrades at the table; friends who'd lain their very bodies 'neath the ends of countless enemy blades to protect the very last progeny of Durin prestige. Friends who had seen what very so few could ever dream to have seen, friends who endured. The occasion was, indeed, grand, demanding an extravagant feast suiting for that of allied kings.

Two, large, thoroughly spiced boars rested upon the ample table. The ripest berries in all of Erebor lied offered in golden platters, steaming stew in gilded bowls, wine and ale of the finest Dwarven make in gilt chalices, sweets, breads; and even the exquisite delicacy of chocolate rested now before them.

Fili's eyes seemed to glow the more he stared, mouth watering from the beef broth that maids gracefully placed before him. It was when he turned, however, to voice his zealous enthusiasm of the situation in which he caught his uncle's gaze lingering very too longingly towards the particular maid who had placed forth his broth.

Fili's lips tugged mischievously to their sides, his prominent dimples sinking in as he discretely flashed Balin a chaste grin from across the table. Balin's omniscient eyes, of course, hadn't failed to notice Thorin's pining, and so he returned Fili's gesture with a very knowing smile of his own.

Dwarven maidens were a rarity, a _precious_ scarcity, in Erebor. Strong, able bodies with so much loyalty and passion beneath their bearded, domineering guises.

Balin cleared his throat softly, having well seen Thorin's fingers caressing much too long against one of the young maiden's hands whilst she offered him his wine. And when the dark-haired gem (with her flowing long skirts and speckless, mahogany skin) took her quiet leave, the silent yearn in Thorin's eyes decreased into that of felt loss, his hand loosening ever so faintly on his drink.

Fili had to bite hard on his tongue for the sake of allowing Balin to state the obvious in a more.. _presentable_, manner.

"A king, a _fine_ king, is, by all means, allowed his settlement," he began. "Perhaps the probable bud of courtship, Thorin? Many are those who fawn you, who would accept your hand in eternal union."

At this, Thorin's throat constricted and choked with the stew that had yet to fill him. His eyes widened, the hold on his spoon considerably loosened. His hard, painful swallow that came moments later was visible by all those who sat at the table, and the nervousness that shone with the wiping of his mouth, even the more dreadful.

Fili squirmed in his seat, the cautionary glare that Balin had given him no longer enough to suppress his youthful excitement.

"My uncle, married!" Fili finally shouts, a wild smile worthy of a young and beardless babe marked all across his face, "Oh, but it'd be a grand celebration for all of Middle Earth!" he's looking boldy at Thorin now, "May we invite the wizard, Uncle? Master Baggins, too, perhaps?"

Thorin sat frigid in his seat, a visible shake somewhere on his spine at the mention of very old and true friends. His neck turned itself stiffly then with the sound of a thousand snapping trees, the very look in his eyes just enough to place Fili right back into his seat.

"Well, for once, I think the lad is right," said Bofur out of the clear blue, "It has been a vast while since Erebor has seen such a grand occasion."

"It would bring even the mightiest to tears," said Dwalin in his rough voice, "My wife, as well, I'm sure."

But right before Fili could voice his revived joy with the encouragement of nearly every Dwarf at the table (and also, to further redden his shockingly abashed uncle), the loud, clamorous footsteps of a gate guard (thankfully) broke the racket of hubbub.

Each Dwarf quiets down immediately, all eyes on the bowing guard before them.

"Go on," said Thorin after regaining the original color of his face.

"A messenger of Mirkwood, my king, pleads for your audience."

At this, the scandal began.

Balin turned to look at Thorin incredulously, whilst Dwalin scowled mutual glares with Bofur. Oin and Gloin murmured to themselves from beneath their thick beards, wide-eyed and palpably displeased. Fili remained as the sole Dwarf sitting still as a stone in his seat, managing a dangerous glance towards his uncle's unreadable expression. Unlike the others, however, Thorin wore close to no boiling outrage at the mention of Mirkwood. If not for a little tinge of surprise on his lips, that is.

"Give him way," said Thorin, setting aside his long-forgotten fork. "Here, before my friends."

The Dwarf guard nodded firmly before exiting the room, leaving a wake of sharp whispers and hisses amongst the feast table. But before Balin could grasp the opportunity to voice what lingered on everyone's hushed tongues, a tall figure was already emerging graciously towards them from 'neath the candled shadows of the great hall.

Thorin stood, approaching the courier upon the elevated dais, leaving his height several inches taller than that of the Elf's who now stood but a few arms away. The creature immediately yielded, deeply, long silver hair curtaining its shoulders as it stood once more on its feet.

Thorin's scrutiny instantly began to paint the conspicuous contours of salient ears, the pale shade of Elf skin, and of the fine, thin clothing that would forever befuddle the Dwarf King's reasoning in regards to their use (if any) to the dangers of the elements.

The Elf had blue eyes, frosted with age and grace. Large and black pupils stared back at Thorin, those of which lied bathed in complacent solitude, though not nearly as cold and as detached as those of...

Thorin's skin began to heat, an arctic shiver tracing itself all across his spine to the rhythm of a year long's reach of erotic memories. Of perfect skin. Of perfect limbs, of those perfect, wretched, Elven lips.

"Your kind would only seek the fresh breeze of grasslands and the rays of warm sunlight for utmost reasons," said the Dwarf King, his manful voice a ringing echo all across the stone walls. "Speak."

The Elf does not hesitate, does not move. "Winter is here, rightful King of Erebor. Ice seasons itself atop the lowest trees." The voice is laced with canting whispers, causing the Dwarves in the background to rouse uneasily in their seats. "It is in the Elvenking's most private interest for you, King Under the Mountain, to personally attend an upcoming festivity in the heart of Mirkwood. My king asks for your audience, for your company, at his own table. He, too, welcomes one other of your choice to accompany you."

Immediately, there is flabbergasted aggravation coming from the background, though Thorin dismisses it all, his brow now subtly risen in piqued curiosity. "When is this, 'festivity', Elf?"

"Twelve Days, King Under the Mountain."

It is Thorin's turn to scoff, his hand bringing itself to caress against his temple to express his arrant bemusement. "Does the Elvenking of Mirkwood always find it so crucially necessary to host garish parties for every which season's welcoming?"

The Elf stood completely frozen, if not for the faint tick of its brow.

"I cannot," chuckled the Dwarf King. "I am busy. The travel alone is too much of an unnecessary one. Tell your.. _king_, that I will not attend. And that he has my sincerest apologies for your terribly fruitless troubles."

A loud hymn of relief immediately echoed itself from the background.

"The Elvenking desires your presence most.. _fervently_, King Thorin," said the messenger very quietly amidst the noise, almost as if wanting only Thorin himself to hear that particular message; as if it were but the deepest, most darkest secret in all of Middle Earth. "He would, I'm certain, as much as deploy his most favored clergy to escort you safel-"

"I need naught the aid of elves," Thorin hissed, retentions of the past already beginning to brim. "As I said, give the Elvenking my apology."

The Elf seemed to have visibly hesitated at his suggested departure, though ultimately bit his tongue, undaring himself to speak any further. He instead bowed deeply, prepping his departure before turning gracefully on his heels to leave.

Thorin watched blankly for a moment, though reacted immediately to the very first echo of heel against stone. He wavered, his hand nearly reaching into the air to stop the Elf from going any further.

A brief, hellish flash of long, flaxen tufts of Elven hair adorned with white, tangled flowers within splintered coronals had tainted Thorin's most vulnerable conscious like a biting, vicious snake. Cold and heartless eyes bathed in indigo ice, thick lashes with so much spite, white skin, soft lips, long legs, full thighs...

Thin, elegant fingers in his hair. Warm palms cupping against his face, a wet kiss. A wet tongue.

"Wait."

The Elf froze as if it never moved. Thorin's voice was a whisper. A whisper that only he and the courier could ever be able to hear. "Inform the Elvenking that though the possibility is slim, I will.. consider his invitation, further."

The Elf then turned to give one final bow, disappearing through heavy stone doors.

And though the Dwarf King's truest friends and comrades interrogated him mercilessly after the peculiar incident, Thorin said nothing before having left for his chambers, leaving nothing but utter silence in his wake. And plenty of hushed whispers.

That night, Thorin roused heavily from beneath the warmth of his blankets, unable to fall swiftly into the brace of sleep, for the ghostly feel of the Elvenking's sweet skin stung fiercely at his tongue, at his fingertips. Devilish memories of slick, pink skin tightening around him, _pulling_ him in: a fleeting shiver against the entire girth of his length, that of which had been repeatedly swallowed and _milked_ and **worshiped **from far within Elven flesh.

Soft moaning, whimpers, and lustful groans of completion rang in Thorin's ears. The sinful way in which the Elvenking's eyes had slowly rolled back into his head.

No, the Dwarf King could not sleep that night.

Not until his seed lied shameful and wet across his every sheet, mouth wide and gasping for breath.

**oOo**

If surprise could, indeed, brim, Fili would have lied ruptured on the ground.

"But, Uncle," he nearly choked, watching as Thorin walked across and about whilst gathering several which things. "Are you certain..? For my company, I mean, and not that of, I don't know, Balin or-"

Thorin paused at this, unsheathing and silently inspecting his most potent blade, the crackling of the room's fire filling the confusion that stifled the air.

Fili's mouth had yet to properly close, a perplexed expression painted all along his face at the sight of his uncle's sudden and rather.. _strange_, behavior. The young Dwarf Prince hadn't at all known he'd live to see the mythic feat of Thorin Oakenshield accepting the sudden and overbold invitations to that of Elven celebrations. And to have been, well, _exclusively_ asked (him, _Fili_, of all others) to be of use and company throughout the long travel to Mirkwood was even the more utterly unreal.

"I take you will not leave bare-handed?" asked Thorin. "We depart before dawn. Sunlight will be of better use to us that way."

But Fili had already disappeared in a fleeting dash of yellows before his uncle's final word could hit the air. He gathered his weapons, packed food and water, and dressed in his best, most presentable attire at record speed. Hardly a hare had sped by when Fili reappeared before his uncle at the very same spot, smiling true and wide.

Thorin's brow rose curiously, lending his nephew a nod of approval.

"If only you'd use such speed in the midst of battle," said Thorin, "You'd be a force, indeed. Come. We leave."

And so they left, mounted on the sturdiest of trots Erebor had to offer.

A thick, flowing mane draped Fili's pony to the calves, while an intricately braided blanket of ebony tufts draped across Thorin's most favored. They left Erebor with exquisitely furred coats and fine clothing carefully stitched from underneath their armored exteriors. Fili rode aside his uncle through vast miles like a gallant wind of sienna and browns, a suiting contrast to that of Thorin's black and grays.

The wind was merciful throughout their venture, as was the sun.

The Winter's breeze lied hardly felt as they rode towards the bleak cedars of Mirkwood that were so very oft left unvisited by those of living creatures, for the wood's dangers far prevailed that of its fabled beauty in the eyes of many. The Durins camped when needed, shifts ordered properly with precise timing. They ate and laughed during the evenings in the midst of small campfire, sharing memories and recollections of fading thoughts.

And when Fili happened to absently glance at the emptiness beside him as he chuckled, towards the very spot Kili once sat in (always to his left, smiling, close and near), he would feel his heart begin to rip in half, could hear it tearing slowly and painfully from far beneath his chest. And Fili would tremble in upcoming sob, beginning to silently cry, eyes clenching, hands tearing skin from their palms as his nails dug fiercely into calloused flesh.

Sorrow was a merciless wave, this insufferable loss. The loss of his dearest, most beloved brother whom he'd come to carry in his arms from somewhere in the vast planar of the past. Whom would laugh at nothing, whom would do what most deemed silly or otherwise absurd.

Like the bow. Like the arrows that he once carried at his back.

And it was during this time that Thorin would offer his powerful hand upon his nephew's shoulder with the embrace that followed, only to set off once more on the light of the morrow.

**oOo**

They were greeted by shadow, a bestial howl from far within the black bowers of the wood.

The ponies whinnied in unease, their hooves drumming the miry ground in great distress. Thorin glared, calming the animal as the tall, gleaming silhouette of an Elf emerged quietly from within the barren trees, mounted upon albescent steed.

"The Elvenking's honored guests," she said. Coils of white hair fell from her hood as she removed it, revealing ghostly tracts of skin 'neath the moonlight, "Welcome." Her eyes lacked color, melanoid and strange. Fili found himself staring, wide-eyed, not knowing either to feel smitten or dismayed. "Many await your company, King Under the Mountain, and.. Prince."

Her lips curved into a soft smile, beckoning the two Dwarves to follow close behind.

And so they did.

A labyrinth overneath another, unnatural noises hissed from every dark corner. No light nor reef from far within Mirkwood's leafless trees spoke to them kindly, just listless and lonely Winter freeze. No Elves could be seen, no sign or cheer of festivity. Thorin grew wary by the minute, uncertain, deceived, and by the almighty beard of Durin, he felt _foolish._

It was when faint candlelight could be seen, and Elvish Tongue clearly spoken from within the shadows, that Thorin released the firm grip on his blade's handle. Fili, having seen his uncle prepared for incoming assault had, too , loosened his hold upon his sword, teal eyes steady and fierce on Thorin's any and every lead.

The intoned lisp of Elves grew clearer and closer as they went on until, finally, the Elf stopped, dismounting her horse before the two Dwarves.

Thorin's eyes never wavered, his fingers tensing and aching for the steel comfort of his blade. Fili's hand lied prepped and ready on his pony's mane, ready to sprint forward at any second, at any gesture of Thorin's beckon.

The Elf's eyes lingered upon them quietly, calmly, until she stood but an arm's length away.

"Come," she said. "And welcome."

She yielded then, with one knee planted on the ground, moving aside to reveal glorious hues of blue.

**oOo**

They were shown to their seats, the reek of flora and verdant musk veiling the crisp air.

Indeed, it was a celebration hosted by a king. Several Elves stood as they plucked golden harp strings, creating otherworldly incantations with their long, nimble fingers. There were fountains in every which direction, the sound of running water creating a gentle hum that caressed the lovelorn sonnets that some of the Elves were singing.

Composed chuckles, almost as if practiced, lashed at Thorin's nerves, for he was unused to such chintzy a pretense stemmed from a race that defined all that was conceit and self-love. When a Dwarf laughed, a Dwarf laughed mightily; _powerfully_. Loudly, and truly. A Dwarf laughed with zeal and heart, so very much unlike these icy creatures.

Drink was endless in its amount, though both Thorin and Fili hesitated an innumerable amount of times to take even but a whiff from their chalices.

Elven wine gleamed a blood-red, a thick and heady liquid emitting an odor so intensely concentrated that even Fili was left reeling back in his seat at the first sniff of it. Food was immediately brought to them upon thin plates, padded carefully with green leaves and budding blossoms. Strange biscuits stared back at Thorin, insipid in color as they were likely in their taste. Fili winced to himself, watching as more and more of those bizarre, Elven delicacies appeared upon their table in precise pattern, each placed by the hands of a different Elf.

"Who would eat this?" he whispered, "Surely they starve themselves this way."

Thorin eyed his drink suspiciously before giving his nephew a glance that spoke in silent agreement, pleasantly surprised that the wine hadn't tasted as dreadfully horrifying as initially expected. Before he could have a second taste, however, and before he could glance through the small crowd for a very specific face, the sudden cease of song and laughter caused Thorin to suddenly look forward, towards the source of every Elf's heed.

The Elvenking.

So impossibly tall in his stature, a tearaway star set upon a marbled dream of white. So fair a face like a Vestal statue, jewelled and carved with a god-lent grace. His lips lied flushed: a dark red rose, brows like the scented scheme of night. And his hair, a threaded shroud of snow, held in place by carefully splintered coronals, a crown which lied raveled and draped with fulvid leaf and vine.

But one other stood at his side, a familiar figure, one whose fair skin transcended even that of the Elvenking's. Thorin stared while pretending that he wasn't (and by the Gods was his breath completely hitched then, a heartache placed upon his face there), shooting a more shameless Fili a glare that reflected all that the young Dwarf feared.

Thranduil was immediately offered drink. He approved the gesture, taking a single, chaste sip before placing the chalice right back on the platter, approaching the largest table above a patterned dais, the table in which the two Dwarves sat. Legolas followed closely behind, his thin lips pulling into a faint smile the moment he and his father stood before the Dwarf King and the one other who he'd never once seen.

Thorin said nothing, filling the silence with a rough bite of his bread. It was Fili who presented the notion to stand in regard to the Elvenking and his heir, though was instantly stopped in mid-action by the Elvenking himself, a subtle motion of two, long fingers beckoning the young Dwarf to stay seated. And so Fili planted himself back down, eyes unblinking, watching as the two eldritch creatures filled the remaining seats before he and his uncle. Song and music echoed from the background once more, the previous silence now filled with the chatter of Elvish Tongue and reposed chortle.

"Your consideration ended positively, King Under the Mountain," said Thranduil. "You are here."

At this, Thorin gave the Elf a look that was less than becoming of a guest. His brows furrowed themselves tightly, skin stretching taut against bone to the rhythm of past memories, and his eyes, the smolder of undying spite. Thorin's scrutiny, instead of softening at Thranduil's benign gesture (for the Elvenking had taken it upon himself to pour the Dwarf King more wine), only shifted itself to the second Elf, the sinful symmetry of its face only causing Thorin's eyes to subconsciously narrow ever further.

The air became stagnant, thick. And heavy.

Legolas coughed softly onto the back of his hand, reaching for a careful helping of fruit chops, smooth, white hands going about the process in unwavering poise. Fili kept himself from shamelessly staring, attempting to concentrate more-so on his drink than on the Elf Prince.

Thranduil's gaze, however, was an omniscience, as he had not failed to notice the young Dwarf's amusing dilemma upon his son, for the Elvenking was entirely aware of Legolas' ethereal beauty like the very rings that bejeweled his hands.

"A promising heir," said Thranduil in a ghostly leer from 'neath the veil of his long, black lashes, "Perhaps worthy of the throne after much.. _honing_."

Before Thorin could hiss a tasteless obscenity in response to Thranduil's serpent flattery, however, he noticed his nephew's eyes had began to significantly widen towards Legolas.

Fili's mouth parted slowly, teal eyes lingering to meet the blue of the Elf's. Legolas paused in his chewing, visibly hesitating whether or not to set aside his fork.

"That.. You.. You're an archer?"

Legolas turned, towards the bow at his back, as if realizing its existence at all, a charming smile upon his fine lips. "Yes. A fine tool of stealth and deadly precision, if one cares to practice its art." He pulled out a single arrow from its quiver, tracing its length with a silken finger, "These were carved from the rinds of Quaking Aspen, its leaves so carefully sliced at each end so that they mimic the delicate texture of bird feathers."

Thorin tensed at this, a heavy breath traceable from within his chest. Thranduil, however, watched Fili's growing reaction in piqued interest, a gentle slant of the Elvenking's brow encouraging Legolas to go on.

"A single of its kind could pierce into the thickest of armor, cleave skin in an instant," the Elf Prince continued, eager in his explanation as he placed the arrow back into its place, "If shot correctly, they're plenty potent to course through the air with enough force to shatter bone into a sleet of dust. Perhaps someday I could show y-"

"My brother.." Fili choked quietly, his expression now utterly withered into that of sheer hurt, "Kili. He.. favored the arrows.. and the handling of bows.."

"Favored?" smiled Legolas, "Has his fancy shifted to that of swords, then?"

There was a dreary silence. Thranduil brushed two fingers upon his son's lips, hushing him softly. Immediately, Legolas understood. "I'm.. so sorry," he whispered, his shoulders loosened from their previous bearing.

"Perhaps some _Elves_ lack greatly in the means of discretion," said Thorin with a sour look marked upon his face, "Or perhaps he is simply as his father."

Thranduil's lips stiffened gravely at this, his chin risen in bitter enmity at the Dwarf King's boorish insult. Legolas grew uncomfortable in his seat, his blue eyes downcast towards his plate as if searching for the deepest, most sincerest apology from somewhere upon its silvern surface.

"Uncle, please," whispered Fili, "He meant nothing by it. He hadn't known."

And so there was a tension that left the air too rancid to breathe, that left the food flavorless, and the drink, too dry. Yet they ate in silence, Legolas glancing at Fili throughout in continual apology, whilst Thranduil scrutinized Thorin from 'neath his lashes, tasting wet fruit from inside his mouth. It was when the Dwarf King lied on the verge of bellowing he and his nephew's immediate leave of Mirkwood in which Fili began to spark conversation with Legolas.

Thranduil's eyes fixed themselves to the side, towards his son, as he watched him delve deep into the web of animated discourse with the Dwarf.

The young heir of the mountain spoke avidly of past adventures with his uncle. Stories of rock giants , goblins, hobbits, and powerful wizards. If judged languidly by Thranduil's logic, the Dwarf would be most fervently exaggerating on all accounts. Though, strangely enough, Legolas straightened in his seat ever the more, _excitedly_, the more the other went on. His thin, pronounced brows lied alit upon his porcelain complexion, lips curved and eager to question. The Elvenking hadn't seen his son so terribly consumed in a very long while, so.. _spirited_.

When asked of his own adventures, Legolas spoke of his lone and frequent undertakings from within the borders of the wood, though his face lowered greatly in its fervor, almost as if embarrassed to explain after having heard the exuberant enterprises that Fili had entailed to him. But Fili was eager to share, as it was in his nature to befriend, and encouraged the Elf Prince to delve deeper in detail until Legolas brightened in a flail of hand gestures and facial vigor, motioning several depictions of how he'd shoot his bow at venomous and monstrous spiders, how he'd hid behind fallen trees to defeat an arachnid queen with a single arrow without having gone at all seen; how he'd extracted some of its poison into a small vial, and how he'd use it even to that day to poison his deadliest arrows.

And so the two princes laughed and chuckled at each other's tales, toasting again and again from across the table with the hours that passed. Thorin hadn't seen Fili so alive and smiling since Kili had gone, since the two were but two tiny Dwarflings making utter fools of themselves throughout the crowded streets of Erebor. Since before the dragon. Since before.. everything.

The two kings, however, sat in grave stillness, moving only to place tufts of food into their mouths whenever the moment seemed too stripped of Legolas' laughter, or too void of Fili's mirthful voice. Thorin avoided Thranduil's gaze like the plague, looking at only and everything that did not consist of impossible beauty, flaxen-taffeta tresses, or porcelain skin. That hadn't such perfect lips, that hadn't such lovely, _lovely_ eyes.. That hadn't his entire self-control ribboned between its long, white fingers.

Harps played, Elves sang. Many danced drunk by the time, Elven maidens giggling and threading their fingers between each other's long hair.

It was when Thorin had reached to pour himself more wine for the sake of a soothing pretense that Thranduil had stopped him, his slender hand above Thorin's, lifting the glass pitcher so that the Dwarf King was forced to awkwardly slide his fingers away from the Elf's titillating warmth. Thorin shuddered then, a lascivious tremble of his spine drowning him in recurring memories of the near past.

But it was when his eyes met with the Elvenking's in which Thorin could no longer breathe; a glacier of ice, of blue velvet and all that was tender, forever ageless, yet so ancient. It was a gleam of lust, Elven lips parting ever so slowly, _softly_, so that Thorin was left drooling from within his mouth.

The Elvenking had, indeed, curved his lips.

So gorgeous a face, a soul-numbing smile (so faint, so small, yet so real) with the discrete showing of speckless teeth, a perfect nose.. the outline of seamless, high cheekbones that followed suit. Thorin's legs numbed with the poison of true beauty, his skin burning with the searing ache to _touch, _to **reach**, just once.

Yet, as quickly as it had appeared, it had gone. A planar of air that had taken the spectral smile into a sleet of glitter-dust, and the arctic expression that Thranduil often wore prevailed once more. And he looked away from Thorin, sipping into his goblet, the endless reel of Fili's boastful laughter pulling the Dwarf King back into reality by the root of the hair.

Thorin regained his breath then, his fingers trembling fiercely from 'neath the shield of the gypsum table.

At that moment (or before, Thorin hadn't a clue at that point), the conversation between the two princes had paused abruptly, and Thorin knew immediately (and drearily) that Fili had _seen_, had _noticed_. Legolas' brow already lied risen in peaked curiosity towards his father's ringed hand, and Fili, who had audibly stopped chewing, stared at his uncle's own. It dawned on Thorin then, like the dusk against an inevitable dawn that the Elf Prince had, too, seen just as much as Fili (if not more). It was a dreadful respite of realization that left Thorin wishing he'd keel into some sort of sudden and tragic epilepsy and into the brace of death.

But he hadn't died, and was still well and breathing, when Legolas had opened his mouth to finally speak.

"Father, may I, perhaps, tour our guest into the guest halls?"

Thranduil turned towards his son, heeding his inquiry from beneath the thick drape of his black lashes, and said:

"You may."

So the two heirs left with a string of mutual chatter, and the two kings remained. Thorin was left powerless. He swallowed thickly, more than enough (and loudly enough) for the Elvenking to note it in large, bold letters wherever and whenever he pleased.

"The presence of my people strains your ease, King Under the Mountain," he said, plucking a single grape from his plate. "Your lips have remained terribly.. pressed."

O, how the Elf riddled in husky whisper and lechery. So licentious a creature, a deviant, a sinful quality in which his kind were honed and destined to lack since long ago.

"Your _kin_, will always carry foul memories, Thranduil," said Thorin. He placed down his chalice and pushed his plate aside. There would be no more of these devilish absurdities. Even the true trust that came from alliance hadn't the strength to ease spite, and even spite hadn't the potency to ease the seed of lewd and vicious need. "My nephew and I should depart. We will require all that daylight has to offer to ensure our travel go swiftly."

Thranduil paused, chewing softly. "You will not.. accompany us for the night?"

"That's absurd. I already yearn for the warm sun of my land, and dread this.. cold, _darkness_ that you linger in."

"Then cold it is not, nor dark must it be," whispered the Elvenking, "when you are here, with me."

Hellish a curse, a demon within each word, and by the mere whim of Thranduil's silver tongue, the mighty Dwarf King sat smitten. Sat taken; entirely seduced.

Ensnared and infernally charmed by the beautiful, conniving serpent of Mirkwood.

**oOo**

The chamber Thorin was to bed for the night was most unlike any of those in Erebor.

Hyaline vases peered from every ridge of the four large windows that encompassed the room with not a flower placed inside, but crisp water, instead. The furniture appeared to be made of sheer glass, translucent bed-posts instead of wood, lucid nightstands; no privacy wherein their interiors if one were hoping to store away more, _intimate _possessions from the likes of prying Elves during the dead of night.

Thorin moved guardedly, almost as if expecting ambush from any of the dark corners that did not lie mildly litted by moonlight. His fingers traced the planar of the sole pitcher table in the room whilst his eyes narrowed in displeasure towards the canopied bed he was to sleep in.

Elves were most certainly gawdy in their tastes, Thorin decided, nearly to the blatant level of absurdity, for the bed lied wrapped in thin, see-through silk, that of which had been ribboned into bows against the bed-posts with white.. _lace_. But the nauseating revelations hadn't ended there. Heavens, no. Right outside the open windows (which Thorin simply couldn't figure out how to close after several forced attempts), were the fountains, and by the fountains, sat several night-enamored Elves whom whispered eerily into the currents of the springs, whom could perhaps _see_ him if they were to look up high just enough.

Thorin grimaced, retreating into the backmost of the room. There he began the tedious process of removing his armor and all else that did not consist of the fine fleece that lied underneath. And just when he was to strip (for Thorin much preferred to sleep bare), a very soft knock against the sole door ceased his fingers from unlacing any further.

The sound was faint, mistakable, but Thorin bore acute hearing for even a Dwarf. He turned, treading quietly towards his blade. He breathed once, sword readied and hidden at his side, and with a twist of the glass handle, he opened the door wide and completely.

And by the perfectly braided beard of Durin.. it was the Elvenking.

Thorin's eyes were helpless not to shoot open, blade shamefully drooping from its previous, readied stance.

There stood Thranduil, in all of his eldritch height, without his crown, dressed in **_very_** thin velour, his hair frothing from his shoulders like a thick torrent of sparkling champagne. His neck lied long and naked, the sensual contour of his collarbone peeking from 'neath his silver robe for Thorin's lingering gaze to feast hungrily upon. The Dwarf King's breath clipped immediately, and even his knees had nearly wavered, the moment he noticed just how _loosely_ the robe was tied at Thranduil's waist, revealing skin (so much pale and perfect skin), a porcelain hell that ended only above the Elf's navel.

All Thorin needed to do was reach out, tug just a little with two single fingers, and the entire thing would fall to the floor from the other's figure in a soft and sudden spill of silver linen. Thorin's blade had already slipped from his hand, causing a cacophony of metal that surely echoed all across Mirkwood, waking beasts and gods-knows-what from deep within its bowers.

Thranduil's eyes followed, intent towards the fallen blade.

"You've yet to trust, Thorin son of Thrain," he said. "You've yet to understand."

Thorin tore his hair back, visibly thwarted, as he abandoned Thranduil's presence (and his blade) at the door.

"What do you want?" hissed the Dwarf King, avoiding all that did not consist of the fascinating bedpost before him. "Can a guest not have his deserved rest after such a travel?"

When there is no answer, Thorin hears the soft closing of the door, and then the sound of naked footsteps steadily approaching his way. He tenses and dares not turn, knowing Thranduil has welcomed himself inside, nearly naked, within sealed walls, where an empty bed lied large enough for two bodies to warm one another through the freeze of winter night.

"Do not neglect yourself from what it is you're truly thinking,_ wishing_," said Thranduil quietly, _gently_, in a voice that was so hellishly calm and so sinfully lisped in lustful, Elvish tongue, "Of what it is you want to _see_."

Thorin turns then, mostly to tell Thranduil to leave immediately and, of course, to curse him, but is instead greeted by the Elf untying his robe. Thorin watched in both horror and rabid thirst as the velour fell to the floor in a maddening ripple of silk, pooling itself beautifully at Thranduil's feet. The epitome of all that was symmetry, flawless nudity, and absolute absence of hair now stood a glowing gem before him, so close (and so tender Thranduil's skin looked that night), caressed carefully by the moonlight; an avalanche of pearl, of citron wine.

Thorin swallowed his inglorious gasp, turning away for all that he had left to muster. His brows tightened, a crease of ire stemming from in between them. "Is this why you've made me venture far from my land and into your dreadful wood?" he snarled, "Is this why you nearly plead upon your knees for my nightly stay? To _fuck_ you?"

A faint smile that had gone unseen painted itself against Thranduil's timeless lips as he approached the Dwarf King upon the tiled floor. He stopped only when his bare chest met with Thorin's hair, threading long fingers into the thick, ebony mane that only the Dwarf King could maintain so fluid and rich even after having warred through so much sweat and filth and Orc. The Elf pressed himself closer then, entirely seduced and smitten by the thought of such virile a king, abdomen hot and flush against Thorin's back, the difference in their heights more obvious than it ever was between them as the Elvenking lent to whisper wintry nothings into Thorin's hair whilst he continued to caress its braided tresses.

Thorin wavered, he wavered greatly, and he hissed in a breath, eyes closing to the rhythm of Thranduil's finger coiling into his hair. The Elf's lips arched at this, feeling the shiver that had trembled all across the Dwarf King's spine, taking it upon himself to slowly trace his tongue against Thorin's ear, leaving a slick trail that left the other's breath hitching into a carnal pitch. So sensual this sound was to Thranduil that the Elvenking grew ever bolder, snaking his hands so that they traced all across Thorin's chiseled chest from behind, feeling and caressing as one would a cherished treasure, a _lover_.

"Do not deny the reason why you agreed, Thorin. Why you considered my invitation.." Thranduil whispered. "Do not deny that you've longed for me. That you cannot forget."

Thorin turned, glaring amidst the hunger in his eyes, but before he can say much of anything, Thranduil is already crouching on his heels, thighs spread so far open wide that they immediately inform Thorin of the Elvenking's ungodly talents in flexibility. The sight is wicked as Thorin dares to look below, for Thranduil's long, ringed fingers were already frantic and feverish at his belt the very same way they were but a year ago in Erebor, whilst Thorin sat upon his throne.

Grinning to one side, Thorin dug his hand into the Elvenking's hair, forcing the Elf to look up at him with those haunting blue eyes.

"You truly are shameless, Thranduil," he said, but Thranduil's lips were already parted, reddened, and wet in their excitement; gaze lidded and so sinfully lashed against a flawless planar of ivory.

Thorin let go then, taken, watching as his belt clamored onto the floor, but before he could attain the mercy of a respite to begin to breathe (at least) correctly, his cock had already sprung free from in between his legs and into the cold air, heavy and thick, yet not fully. Thranduil's eyes gleamed, _stared_, tongue slipping to lick against his lips. Thorin had to strain himself not to peek and incline forward, to look at just how parted the Elvenking's ass could have been seen from behind.

"If you continue what it is that you are doing," Thorin breathed, "I will not stop, I would not be able to stop. I would have you, take you, pillage you and fill you until I tired of spending inside you, for you have tempted me greatly, Thranduil, without having been asked." He paused, smirking sharply. "Or, O Elvenking of Mirkwood, you could leave now, and I would hold no enmity for your shameful retreat."

A chuckle strung itself from within Thranduil's throat in response, a ghostly sneer of conceit from beneath his long, sable lashes.

"You are coy, Dwarf. But I will dethrone you from your pride tonight. You will writhe, you will come at my whim. Now hush."

It had been so long, too long. Thorin's eyes narrowed, threatening to roll back at the notion of Thranduil going about the wicked deed that the Dwarf King hadn't had done upon him since Durin-knows-when. Unfortunately, to Thorin's unsurprise, Thranduil seemed to have begun hesitating the moment Thorin had reached full girth and length.

"Well?" he leered. "You lack the courage of your convictions, Elf. Do it."

And so the Elvenking snapped Thorin a look that was both deadly and venomous seconds before finally taking the head of the Dwarf King's cock into the wet cushion of his mouth. Thorin hissed, feeling the tip brushing softly against the other's tongue. He watched as Thranduil's eyes had lidded themselves tightly, dark brows knitted into an expression of indecision, as if suddenly realizing the obscenity of the action, of the indecency of his moral standing.

Of his total and utter inexperience that had gone entirely unsaid.

But Thorin was ardent in his need, a fierce and libidinous king, and he would have none of this. He had warned the Elf blatantly, clearly. It was not his fault that the salient-eared creature had chosen to pay no heed for the sole sake of its self-love. A Dwarf King never faltered in his promises, and the promise had been, well, thorough defilement; and thorough defilement it would be when Thorin had grabbed a firm hold of Thranduil's long hair, pulled on it hard, burying his cockhead ever further into moist friction, grazing teeth, until the very slit of his prick pressed firmly against the other's uvula.

The Elvenking's eyes immediately snapped open in wringing surprise, but before he could look up towards the Dwarf King, or attempt to pull away, Thorin had gored himself earnestly into the Elf's throat until it lied choked and clogged with cock. The breech denoted a delectable noise, a sort of wetted pop. Thranduil hadn't moved, his hands frozen into place against Thorin's chiseled thighs, icy eyes wide and glazed over from shock.

Thorin's sacs tensed and retreated almost instantly, feeling as the Elvenking's chin now lied melded against them. He looked below and noted how Thranduil looked utterly tainted, taken, cheeks puffed and flushed with the Dwarf King's sizable girth inside of them. A single tear ran down the Elf's face as Thranduil finally looked up at him, brows slanted and lashes wet. His hands clawed weakly at Thorin's thighs, yet made no real attempt to loosen himself from the cock that lied embedded in his throat.

Thorin loosened his grip on the Elvenking's hair, overcome by the fiendish amount of pleasure that overwhelmed him, nearly unable to keep the surge of his climax sated by sheer will alone. The Dwarf King, however, was mighty in his resolve and he again looked down towards Thranduil, holding him in place. The Elf made no movement, merely staring into Thorin's eyes as he crouched and sat on his heels, blinking then and now in a way that drove Thorin utterly mad.

The Elf liked to tease even then. When his throat lied ravaged and entirely breached. The nerve, the _audacity, _such wicked vanity.

Thorin gained a languid pace then (still wondering blankly from somewhere in his mind if all Elves lacked a gag reflex in this way), whilst the blue in Thranduil's eyes began to waver into the back of his head. More tears began to spill, endless in their count, when Thorin had taken it into himself to thrust a tad quicker, deeper, and with more force. The Elvenking's hands were frantic on Thorin's thighs now, almost as if attempting to find a solace or a sense of balance, his eyes beginning to retreat into their lids. Indeed the Dwarf King was relentless as he fucked into Thranduil's skull again and again, leaving very little room to catch a breath.

The sounds were filthy, gagged and choked, the visible outline of Thorin's thick cock sliding in and out of the Elf's gullet.

Thranduil began to feel as that very cock pulsed, twitched, and engorged evermore from inside him, deeming that Thorin must simply be reaching the second before inevitable release.

But before Thranduil could take much pride in his Elven endurance, Thorin's hand had dug deeper into his hair, nearly tearing some of its silvern tendrils, as he again began to push and fuck into the other in unpremeditated vigor and ferocity; _carelessly_, **frenetically**. The thrusts grew virulent. Thranduil was a ragged doll against the Dwarf King, moving at the other's desired pace. The cerulean in the Elvenking's eyes had long disappeared into his head, lifeless, tears marring at his flawless complexion in response to the brute helplessness of his throat.

Thorin's mouth suddenly snapped open then, at the sight of the Elf, and he let out a profound, howling moan.

Thorin never made noise.

Thranduil choked on him, could feel the Elvenking's esophagus tightening, begging, _pleading_, for air. And that was all that Thorin could possibly take. He slid the entirety of his prick into the other's windpipe one again, one last time, the Elf's chin pressing deliciously hard against his ballocks. And with a hiss of breath, and with the erotic realization that Thranduil had been feverishly pulling at his own unattended cock for an unaccounted amount of time.. Thorin came.

They both came immensely; nearly in unison.

A spasm and knot of searing release; Thorin came thick and true. A different world, a different_centripetal_, that he hadn't known before overrode the Dwarf King's mind. His body. His cock.

His prick spillaged and squeezed every last ink of seed directly into Thranduil's throat and into his gut; filling him. The notion almost killed Thorin, and he would have gladly died. When the Dwarf King regained some reason, some life, he immediately pulled away, inwardly fearful that he had somehow, indeed, injured the Elvenking.

A long gagging sound filled the room the moment Thorin had slid out of him, and he watched, breathless, as the Elf collapsed from his previous balanced position, thighs spread open wide to reveal the erected, ivory treasure inside as his neck craned forward, eyes hooded, hair tussled, and panting, _hard_. Thranduil coughed up several clumps of white seed out of himself. Thorin's eyes narrowed, a faint grin upon his face as he reeled back against the bedpost in fatigue. He must have filled the Elf to the brim.

His face, though tainted and fucked, lied beautiful as ever. Impeccable. A wingless sprite. Thorin fell gently on one knee, brushing his parted lips against Thranduil's panting ones, whispering mindless flatteries onto them; each with a kiss. The Elf opened his eyes then, revealing a slit of glowing indigo that failed naught to steal away Thorin's every and any gloom from ever in his past, even if for just one, small, insignificant moment.

Only Thranduil could do that.

Thorin's platinum eyes softened, entirely enamored, bringing the soiled limbs of the Elf's body into his strong arms and onto the bed in one swift motion. "Look at me," Thorin whispered, threading sword-calloused fingers into the Elvenking's long, flaxen hair as he fell quietly at the other's side. And so Thranduil did, revealing glorious, ancient hues of blue as he breathed deeply, but much more calmly. "Tell me, what am I to the Elvenking of Mirkwood?"

Thranduil faltered then, mouth parted as he struggled to accept what he thought he'd just heard escape the mighty Dwarf King's vocal chords. He brought himself to speak, however, regardless of the throbbing ache within his throat.

"My confusion," he whispered, lashes long and lovely, "The question and conclusion."

And so Thorin sealed those scarlet lips in a burning passion, kissing the Elf's flavored mouth softly, delicately. The response was just as intimate, white palms bringing themselves to rest against Thorin's handsome face, caressing his beard, tracing the contours of sharp, kingly features. The kiss was wet. The kiss was sweet, soft noises of lips against lips veiling the cool air of the room until Thorin had pulled away, sitting upwards.

"Turn," he said. "Show me."

So Thranduil did without much hesitation, bringing himself upon his hands and knees, as if knowing and anticipating just what it was that Thorin wished of him next. The Dwarf King, again, sat mesmerized by the other's absolute flawlessness, balancing upon his knees so that he was leveled just right against Thranduil's asshole. Thorin gave two strokes upon his own length, immediately reaching full breadth as he traced the blunt of his cock against the other's ivory gash.

Thranduil shuddered, gasping at the feeling that was to come. "You haven't yet prepared me," he whispered against the silken sheets, "You would crudely take me as I am?"

"I will.. gently," responded Thorin, "I wouldn't hurt you."

Thorin did what most kings would never do to those they were not married to in eternal union: he spat on his fingers, wetting them, and then rubbed them all across his cock so that the pain might be lessened for the Elvenking. Thranduil whimpered against the sheets the moment Thorin pressed flush against his sealed opening, prepping him for the monstrous intrusion that the Elvenking had fawned and wished for far too long 'neath the solitude of his own blankets for countless which nights.

The Dwarf King wasted no time, pushing hard so that he gaped open the pink pucker just enough to see his cockhead disappear from within its velvety furnace. The feeling was unreal, familiar, but yet so new. Thranduil grew impatient in his own insatiable want, reaching behind himself so that he balanced on his neck, spreading his ass open for all that it would go so that Thorin may have limitless access of his most vulnerable flesh.

Thorin accepted the invitation with silent zeal, a wild flame sprouting from within him as he slid in by the inch; easy, so that he felt every ridge and buffer of the other's wet and pulsing cavity, so that he watched closely and nearly drooled at the sight of his own cock slowly fucking into such perfect ass. Thranduil moaned loudly this time, like a carnal mortal in heat, spreading himself the more Thorin went on.

"Fuck me," breathed the Elvenking, "Fuck into me and show me, Thorin.. I've dreamt you, I've wished you. And now.. I cannot.. stop."

And by the Gods was that enough to drive the Dwarf King mad.

He slipped inside, deep into the other's convulsing heat, draping himself over Thranduil so that he could reach the hard, leaking cock that lied beneath. And with the heavy girth of Thorin's length buried deep inside, and with that rough, powerful hand milking the Elf into sensuous orgasm, Thranduil came a second time; a howl of need and passion reverberating from his chords and into the sheets as Thorin thumbed the sensitive, soiled slit before pulling his hand away, placing either of his hands against Thranduil's hips, dragging him in. And so the perpetual, erotic wave of sensual storm of flesh against flesh began.

Thorin held a steady pace, slamming his hips into the other's pliable buttocks so that the sinful sound deflowered any remaining innocence of the room. He watched closely as Thranduil's ass shook and rippled against each thrust, waves of speckless skin and ivory that forced Thorin's hands to knead against those rounded orbs when the temptation grew too great, earning himself a soft gasp of shying embarrassment from the Elf every time he did.

So it was somewhere throughout the delicious process of slow-fucking the Elvenking of Mirkwood into complete and utter submission that Thorin's cock began to seer and pulsate, the coil of completion pressing and unraveling him from within his pelvis. He watched, one last time, as his long, heavy cock slipped in and out of the Elf's flushed asshole in bedewed, wetted cycles, allowing himself to finally bury his entire length into the creamy insides of the other so that he could spend hungrily and ravenously deep inside Thranduil's mewling figure.

Thorin poured his essence thoroughly, every last splatter and ribbon of it, until he ultimately collapsed against Thranduil's panting figure. They stayed in that position for a long while, reaching for kisses when the moment seemed too lovely, when Thorin's eyes seemed too beautiful to resist. When they couldn't cease from staring into each other's eyes like young lovers in the throes of precious privacy.

Exhaustion soon dawned on Thorin, however, and he pulled out from Thranduil with a string of seed connecting him still to the Elf's cum-dripping hole. They found solace inside the sheets soon after, Thranduil's head resting weightlessly against Thorin's powerful shoulder, long, ringed fingers toying with the dark hair of the Dwarf King's chest in peaceful, mutual silence.

"You're worse than I imagined," Thorin murmured almost incoherently, eyes closing sleepily now. "Insatiable. Filthy. _Wretched_."

Thranduil hid his faint smile well, lifting a single, long, pale leg from within the sheets to wrap itself against Thorin's nudity; safely, possessively. "I answered you before, what it was that you were to me," whispered the Elvenking, fingers tracing themselves against the chiseled muscles of Thorin's chest, "Now I question the same. Why you traveled and ventured into my wood. Why you lie here with me; my hand upon your chest in a romantic tangle. An embrace designed for those who pine for the skin of one another, for those who are tied by fate." He paused, blue, antediluvian eyes looking towards Thorin's closed ones. "So I ask you in return, what am I to you, King Under the Mountain?"

But it was Thorin's soft snoring that told Thranduil that his inquiry would go without answer for the night.

A breeze in the darkness, a quell of nihility into the air of the room. A wordless whisper; a wraith.

For it was a senseless impossibility that the Elvenking obsessed in silence when his bed lied the most cold and the most lonely. When there lied no firm chest to slumber upon. When the warmth of a fierce and virile lover did not accompany his side from within the dark, sunless bowers of Mirkwood; from within palpable reach.

When this Dwarf King held him not through the nights, this being of limited years. Vulnerable to age and sickness, always closer to death with each conniving breath. Vulnerable, so vulnerable. Counted heartbeats, counted days, hours, minutes, seasons. Counted seconds.

Counted. All **so** _hellishly _**counted**.

This being who held Thranduil clinging so desperately to a withering string.

A foolish, withering dream.

Of love.

Of inevitable grief.

**oOo**

The song of birds signaled the dawn, but the two kings lied awake far before since.

Thorin pulled out from Thranduil's soiled heat, grinning, for he had spent himself for the third time that morning from far within the Elvenking's willing body. He panted, instantly falling victim to the spell of those enchanting, Elven eyes that only Thranduil had, a smooth palm resting upon his cheek.

"Mellon nin," said Thranduil, "Travel well so that we may meet once more."

Thorin roused then to stand, "Vast miles await my nephew and I-"

But the Dwarf King could not complete his thought, for Thranduil had lifted himself up, wrapping his lithe arms about Thorin's neck like pining swans entwined. And with a moment's respite, he kissed Thorin with a painful passion, slowly parting his long legs upon the bed.

And before neither of them could stop it, Thorin had already slipped deep inside the Elf again.

Though both kings would forever lie clueless to the two heirs who had seen their lovemaking unravel from behind the open door, mouths parted in unison with shocked expressions wherein their colored eyes.

Fili and Legolas fled to the fountains in a flail of embarrassment that scarring morning, swearing oath to each other never to speak a word of what they had seen that day for all eternity.

But if they succeeded in their pact has yet to be seen.

**oOo**


End file.
